Half a Face
by Bad Luck Bree
Summary: Arabelle has a hideously deformed face. She lives alone in the woods until she meets a mysterious stranger who will not show himself to her. A sort of friendship begins between them. What will become of it when Arabelle's curiosity overcomes her?
1. Cover of Darkness

Chapter I

Cover of Darkness

Arabelle was different from everyone else.

Arabelle was hated by all who saw her.

Arabelle was shunned by all who chanced to see her.

Arabelle was a poor girl who never did anyone harm.

Arabelle was a girl with only half a face.

Some birth defect had robbed the girl of normal features. The right side of her face was perfectly normal, with one beautiful blue eye, large and kind, full lips curved in a slight smile, and a rosy cheek. But her left side was different. The eye on that side was a sightless orb, milky white. Her lips curved into a twisted snarl, her teeth bared unintentionally. Her cheek was blotched with purple and marked with burned areas. Scars crisscrossed down her nose and forehead, and she had no eyebrow on that side. Her golden hair covered her entire head at least, and she often sought to let the hair on her left side hang over her face, covering it. She was beautiful from the right side…but hideous from the left.

Arabelle had been an accident. Her mother, a young girl from a poor family, had been raped by an older man. Perhaps the rough treatment of her mother during the rape had caused the seed to be damaged. Whatever it was, Arabelle had been like that ever since she was born. Her mother had loved the girl, though. But the mother was a frail creature and hadn't lasted long after the hard labor. Arabelle had been raised by her grandmother. Her grandmother thought of the girl as the cause of her daughter's death. She treated the child with contempt, only raising her for the sake of her daughter.

Arabelle was treated as a servant until she was fifteen. Then, she was driven out of the house. After going from village to village in search of means of survival, the poor girl at last gave up. Each time she went to a village, she was driven out. Her hideous appearance frightened people, making them think she was a demon or a cursed being. At last, she sought her living out in the woods.

Arabelle was a strong girl, able to hunt for her food or forage for vegetation. She would still venture into the towns to search for any means of a job, just in case someone would take pity on her…but no opportunity presented itself. All hated her, even though she was a sweet, mild-mannered girl. Her deformed face caused people to avert their eyes, either by contempt or pity mixed with disgust.

Arabelle miraculously was not bitter towards humanity. She had seen herself in reflecting pools and understood the fear she instilled in people. She herself had been frightened of her image. The staring white orb of her eye…the bloody spots on her cheeks…the scars and crude stitch marks from the wounds of her hard birth…the mouth twisted up in a permanent sneer…she had the look of a demon.

Maybe it was better this way…maybe living out in the woods kept her away from those who feared her. Maybe it was for the good of humanity to be rid of something they feared and hated. Perhaps her life was a mistake. Obviously something had gone wrong in her creation. Better to avoid the others.

But one thought always plagued the girl.

_Do I have to be so lonely?_

It was twilight, and Arabelle was gathering wood for her fire. She was finding plenty. She gathered it up in her strong brown arms, sinewy with hard work and toil and tanned by the sun. She lifted her single eye up to the canopy of trees. It would be getting dark soon…she'd best light her fire soon to ward off wild beasts.

As she bent to pick up another small bit of wood, Arabelle's keen ears picked up the sound of slight movement. She stopped, slowly straightening. She looked about. Though she only had one good eye, it was _very_ good. She could see well in the dark, and the dusky surroundings didn't hamper her vision. She saw a dark shadow flit behind the trees. Cautiously, Arabelle touched the hilt of a dagger she kept stored at the back of her belt. She began moving towards a small stone quarry, long abandoned and a good shelter for her. She had set up her home there.

Forming the fire wood into a cone-like structure, Arabelle struck flint to tinder and caught a spark, fueling it with leaves and grass and piling on charcoal and wood. She pressed her back up against a rock, wrapping an old, ragged cloak about her. She had already eaten a meager meal of nuts and berries, having failed in her hunting that day. She was a good hunter, but her luck had run out today.

Arabelle began to nod, her head resting back against the rock. She could dimly make out the fire shadows dancing about her feet, flickering with a pleasant pattern. The night sounds were no different…all was well.

"Don't turn around."

Arabelle stiffened. The voice came from behind her. Her back was against a rock, but from the voice, she could tell whoever it came from was on the other side of the rock.

But it was no ordinary voice. It seemed a strange, somewhat discordant sound, as if the vocal chords were not arranged correctly. It was deep and big, obviously a man's voice, but grating. It was a whisper, but still very loud.

Arabelle felt fear creep into her being. She wanted to turn, but she guessed it would result in her death or harm. She instead spoke in as calm a voice as she could muster, "What…what do you want of me?"

The voice spoke again, still seeming an awkward sound, as if it hadn't been speaking too long, the words somewhat broken and halting, "Just your fire…may I sleep near it?"

Arabelle felt her throat pulsing wildly, "Are you a robber or a murderer? You don't think I'd really let you sleep near me, do you?"

A laugh came, and Arabelle's skin crawled at the sound. It was like ice on oiled silk, "I thought you would say that. Have you already seen me?"

Arabelle shook her head, "No…no, I haven't…that's why I'm frightened…"

The voice spoke again, "Ah…you won't see me, though…I haven't seen you clearly yet. Not yet…"

Arabelle spoke with a tinge of bitterness in her voice, "Which is why you've chosen to stop here…you haven't seen me…and you haven't run away in terror."

A pause followed. Then the voice came, slightly softer and slower, as if labored, "What…what do you mean?"

Arabelle didn't answer. Then the voice came again, "Wait a moment…"

After a slight lull, the voice came again, farther off, "Stand up and turn around…I promise I won't hurt you. You won't be able to see me, but I'll be able to see you."

Arabelle, filled with unhealthy curiosity, obeyed, her temples throbbing with fear. She stood and turned, looking out into the blackness. She saw only the tip of a shadow at the rim of the fire glow, signaling the stranger's presence just beyond the firelight.

Arabelle felt shame fill her. The stranger could see her now…her deformed features. She heard a long sigh come from in front of her. Whether it was from pity, horror or…she did not know.

The voice spoke, "Ah! I did not know! If I had, I…" He fell silent.

"You wouldn't have stopped here? Is it my eye? Or my lips? Which?" Arabelle felt tears prick her eyes. She had never grown used to the looks of contempt and fear she received.

The voice spoke again, "No…oh, child…I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

Arabelle heard the footsteps of the stranger circle around the light of the fire until he was across from her, but just out of the light. Arabelle sat back down, wondering what was to come next.

"You may sleep by my fire," she spoke, thinking herself a fool. He would murder her in her sleep! But what did it matter? Her life was a lonely one…who cared?

"Thank you, little one," the voice said, filled with a kind of compassion that wasn't there before. Then it spoke again, "I have a second request…may I enjoy your conversation?"

Arabelle was surprised. But her own thirst for a real conversation with another human being overpowered her caution. She nodded, "Yes."

The voice began, "Why do you live out here alone? Is it because of your…" It faltered.

"My face? Yes…and I'm not afraid to say it," Arabelle said, void of any emotion, "I know I am ugly."

"Only by something that was out of your power. People shouldn't hate _you_ for it."

Arabelle was touched by the words, but sensed bitterness and sorrow in them. She left the issue and spoke, "Who are you? I have a right to ask, as I can't even see you."

An awkward laugh come from the shadows, "Yes, you do, young maid. I am just a traveler."

Arabelle nodded once, speaking, "I'm just an outcast. My name is Arabelle."

The voice sighed the name as if it were a breath of fresh air, "_Arabelle_…a beautiful name…"

Arabelle smiled, flattered, "Thank you…what might I call you?"

There was a pause, and the voice spoke slowly, "I don't have a name…"

Arabelle paused, "Oh…" She thought it rude to ask why not. But she left it alone.

"Do you stay here every night?" the voice asked.

Arabelle shrugged, "Sometimes I sleep in a forest glade nearby incase I find a wild creature has taken up residence here. Why?"

"I would like to stay with you."

"All throughout the day?"

"No," the voice spoke hastily, "Just in the nights, if you promise not to look at me."

Arabelle thought this an odd request, "Why not?"

"It would compromise our friendship."

"Ah…we're friends, are we?" Arabelle asked.

"Why not?" asked the voice.

Why not indeed. Hadn't Arabelle just been wishing for a friend?

"Agreed…" she answered, hoping she hadn't made a mistake.

"Thank you, young maid. If I have your friendship, I will give you my protection in return. I will watch out for you during the day, and at night, either I will speak with you or watch as you sleep."

Arabelle raised her good eyebrow, "Tell me…I've agreed to share my fires with you…why would you want to do this?"

The voice spoke after a long silence, "I am alone, much like you. I haven't spoken with anyone in a long while. I'm about to go mad with solitude. Surely you feel the same?"

"Aye…" Arabelle spoke the truth. She was glad to have someone to talk to, even if she couldn't see them.

"Sleep now, Arabelle. I will keep watch through the night. And thank you…for your friendship."

Arabelle curled up in her cloak, closing her eyes. If she didn't wake up in the morning after the stranger murdered her, so be it. She wouldn't mind. At least she wouldn't die totally alone.

And if the stranger was sincere…even better.


	2. The Watcher

Chapter II

The Watcher

A slight drizzle wakened Arabelle. She cracked open her good eye, waiting a while for it to fully open. Then she raised her head, yawning. She glanced around, noting that the stranger was gone. He had said he would only be there at night…and he wouldn't reveal himself to her.

Arabelle sat up, stretching her arms and legs. They were somewhat stiff and cold, but she was well rested. The fire was dying, just a heap of glowing embers.

Arabelle rose, draping her cloak over her shoulders and stamping her left foot to shake off the numbness. She went to the fire, hoping it wasn't too wet to build up again. She found some dry grass and leaves and fed the embers, poking and coaxing, at last getting a small flame going.

Turning her head slightly, Arabelle glimpsed a pile of creamy white mushrooms near the edge of the fire. Scooping them towards her, Arabelle sniffed them. They looked very good and a fresh. Was this a parting gift from her mysterious friend?

Smiling slightly, Arabelle spitted three of the biggest ones on a stick and began roasting them over her meager fire. After they were good and brown, she had a good breakfast, enjoying it thoroughly. Good of her new friend to leave mushrooms for her.

Biting into another savory morsel, Arabelle reflected on the previous night. She wondered if the stranger would really come back. She half hoped he would. She liked him. He saw through her deformity. That was good of him.

Arabelle doused the fire, treading on the remaining sparks. She sharpened her dagger, ready to go out and do her day's work. She set off into the deeper parts of the woods, never aware of a large, dark shape following swiftly and silently behind her.

Arabelle had journeyed a good half-hour when she came to the banks of a pond. She smiled, the good side of her face lighting up. What good fortune! She could fish here! She stepped a few paces away from the pond. There was a farmhouse a ways off, but surely they wouldn't mind if she took a few fish from the pond. She could see cows grazing in the pasture. Good…the inhabitants of the house had meat aplenty. She wouldn't be stealing from them, necessarily.

Arabelle laid aside her staff, which she carried in case of a wild animal attack. She tied her long hair in a knot at the nape of her neck, pushing a few strands behind her ears. She then bent at the shaded end of the pond. This was where fish liked to stay. They would swim in and out of small hollows beneath the water.

Arabelle slowly raised her hand just above the water, staying absolutely still. If anyone had been watching her, they would have thought she was made of stone if not for the wind ruffling her clothes and hair. Of course, if anyone had seen her, they would have driven her off as they normally did.

But someone was watching her, and didn't dare show himself to her.

Two eyes stared out at the girl from the shadows beneath the overhang of a clump of weeping willows directly across from where Arabelle was kneeling. The shadowy form was large and awkward shaped, with huge hulking shoulders and clumsy paw-like hands and feet. But it stayed as still as Arabelle, simply watching her.

_What is she doing?_

The figure almost jumped up as Arabelle's arm snapped down into the water, sliding in without a ripple and snaking back out again. Though the deformed side of her face was a permanent sneer, the watcher could tell that she was not pleased, as the normal side of her mouth was turned down in a frown.

_What on earth is she trying to do?_

Arabelle stayed in the same position for almost half an hour, never flinching or moving. Then, her hand shot down again, slipping into the water. This time, when she pulled out her hand, the watcher saw a flash of wriggling silver. A fish!

Arabelle's face showed happiness and satisfaction. She held onto the fish tightly, searching to find a sizeable rock that filled her palm. The watcher stared out, fascinated. Then Arabelle positioned the rock, held onto the fish's tail and brought it slamming down, hitting the rock squarely with the fish's head. The fish immediately stopped squirming, killed instantly.

The shadowy mass moved slightly, crawling forward to the pond edge. Surely…she didn't do that for fun, did she? What would the point be?

Arabelle was handling the dead fish, that satisfied smile still on her face. She was saying something, and her observer heard her with keen ears, "Ah, what a beauty!" Then she bowed her head with closed eyes as she said in a softer voice, "Thank you, Lord, for providing me with food."

The watcher was filled with amazement. Food! That was what she used the fish for? It didn't make sense, but…

_Humans do strange things…this must be one of them…but if Arabelle does it…it can't be wicked. And she is obviously grateful for it._

The watcher looked down into the water. There were a few large fish swimming lazily about.

_Maybe I could help her…_

Sliding into the water slowly and with unperceivable smoothness, the stranger submerged after taking a long breath.

Arabelle was amazed. She had never seen so many fish come flocking to one spot! Her hand shot down, snaring another fish. She pulled it out, swiftly killing it and tossing it into her satchel.

Repeating this process, Arabelle soon had four fish, big and sleek. Delighted, Arabelle resolved to catch just one more. She planned to share with her new friend, should he return. She bent down, readying herself for the next fish.

Suddenly, Arabelle was grabbed roughly by the shoulders and swung around. She was confronted with the angry face of a farmer, obviously the owner of the house nearby. On seeing the girl's hideous deformity, he gave out a cry, his fingers digging cruelly into the girl's shoulders. Arabelle tried to pull away, her hands at her mouth, gasping out, "Sir, please! Let go of me! What's wrong?"

The man drew back his hand, slapping the bad side of Arabelle's face. The girl cried out, the old stitch marks of her scars opening. Blood began seeping slowly from the wounds. The man hauled her upright, snarling into her face, "Trespasser! Little fiend!"

Arabelle pleaded with him, "I'm sorry, sir! I didn't know it was your pond! Here, I'll give you the fish if you'd like! Please, let me go! You're hurting me!"

The farmer pulled back his hand again, absolutely disgusted by the girl's appearance and not heeding her pleas. He struck her harder this time. Arabelle reeled back, missing her footing. She slipped into the pond, her head striking a submerged root of a gnarled tree. She immediately blacked out, her body limply sinking.

The farmer was standing over the pond, his eyes cold as he watched the girl sink. He had heard of her…the little demon girl who had been driven from every town she ever tried to visit. He had heard she was a witch and called up evil spirits. With a face like that, she must be some sort of sorceress. Fine…see if she would call any up now!

The submerged stranger saw a cascade of bubbles as something struck the surface. His eyesight, even underwater, was unnaturally good. He could make out the shape of the girl. Arabelle! She wasn't moving.

Swimming with strong strokes, the stranger reached the girl, hooking his arm around her waist. He touched the bottom of the pond with his feet, pushing up and breaking the surface with a gasp as he sucked in air.

The first thing he saw was the face of a middle-aged man, looking down into the pond. The moment he locked eyes with the man, the man's mouth dropped open, and he gave out a cry of horrified surprise. He turned without a second glance, running with a speed that belied his age.

The stranger pulled himself out of the water, dragging the unconscious girl along with him. He shook water from his face, kneeling over the girl. Unsure of what to do, he softly slapped her cheeks, trying to revive her. He didn't want her to see him…but he didn't want her to die!

He continued doing this until he was rewarded with a groan from the girl. Leaping up, the stranger turned, fleeing into the trees.

Arabelle came back to herself, coughing up water. She rolled over, retching and convulsing as she strove to get the water from her throat. Once she had recovered, she slowly crawled fully onto the bank. She pressed her cheek to the muddy ground, weeping unashamedly. It was more the cruel injustice that caused her to weep than the fact that she had almost drowned. Why? Why did they not see past her face? Why?

Not really thinking as to how she had managed to get ashore, Arabelle lay sprawled out for a few more minutes until she had properly recovered. She then rose, her ragged tunic muddied and drenched, her hair plastered to her face. She turned, expecting to see the satchel of fish gone. But no…it was there!

Sobbing with relief, Arabelle picked up the satchel, actually kissing the rough burlap material. Food was hard to come by for her. She was happy to have it.

Realizing the farmer might be back, Arabelle set out for the quarry, deciding to have an early supper. As she left, leaving wet, muddy footprints on the crushed grass, a large shadow followed imperceptible behind her; the shadow of her rescuer.

Arabelle had built up a good fire, sitting near it and rubbing her chest vigorously. She was cold. The cool air was not kind to her damp skin. She had removed her wet clothes and wrapped herself in her cloak, waiting for her clothes to dry. Once they had, she donned them again, still wearing her cloak. She rubbed her hands in front of the fire, hoping the night wouldn't be windy.

Now Arabelle turned to roasting the fish. She cleaned them and spitted them, roasting them over the flames. They smelled wonderful. It had been a while since she had had some decent meat. This would be a real feast.

Darkness fell as Arabelle finished preparing her meal. She scooted her fish onto a flat rock, drawing her dagger and cutting into the meat.

"Are you going to eat it?"

Arabelle looked up, knowing she wouldn't see anyone. She smiled, "Aye, mate. Smells good, don't it?"

Her mystery friend was silent for a while, and then answered, "Well…I've never eaten a living thing…"

Arabelle arched her good eyebrow, "Never eaten meat? You're missing out, friend. Good, roasted meat is a real treat for me. Why don't you try some fish? Here, I'll roast this one for you." She spitted the third fish, roasting it for her friend and setting it out on a flat rock. She brought it to the edge of the firelight, setting it down. She stepped back, hearing footsteps nearing the plate.

Arabelle went back to her seat, continuing her meal. She heard a loud noise coming from the darkness. A moan of pleasure. She smiled, "Good, eh?"

Her friend continued making the sounds, "Mmm, wonderful! Tastes wonderful!"

Arabelle laughed, "Aye, that it is. I fancy a good fish every now and again."

The two finished their fish in silence. The voice spoke after a contented sigh, "I don't think I've ever eaten so well in my life!"

Arabelle chuckled, "Nothing beats fish, mate. Except a slab of beef, maybe. Can't get my hands on that, though." She shrugged.

"Beef? Aren't there cows nearby?"

Arabelle nodded, "Well, yes…but they belong to the farmers. They either use them for meat or milk. I don't want to steal a cow from them!"

Silence followed. Then a soft, "Are they kind to you?"

Arabelle thought it an odd question, "Well…I've never properly met them…"

"But are they kind to you?"  
Arabelle shrugged feebly, "I don't think they pay much attention to me…" She involuntarily rubbed the side of her face, which had caused her so much grief…and which had also taken many blows. She winced suddenly, her fingernail snagging one of the scars reopened by the farmer's rough treatment of her.

This was immediately noted by the watcher, "What is it?"

Arabelle glanced up into the darkness, pulling her bloodied finger away. Blood trickled down her cheek. She blinked her good eye and then answered, "Nothing…just thinking."

The voice turned harder, "You flinched…what happened?" A gasp was heard, "You're bleeding!"

Arabelle looked at the blood on her finger, pretending to have just seen it, "Oh…clumsy me, I must have torn through some of the stitching…that happens."

The voice had an edge now…cold and commanding, "What happened? Who did that to you?"

Arabelle didn't like lying, but the sound of her friend's voice had a vengeful tone. She spoke in a small voice, "I must've ripped the stitching…it's all right, no one hurt me!"

The voice had grown increasingly deeper, more menacing, "_Who did it to you?"_

Arabelle, after hearing that voice, spilled it all, too frightened to disobey, "Just a farmer, but I was fishing in his pond and deserved to be hit! I was trespassing! He was just warning me!"

She was surprised to hear restrained breathing. But it quieted after a while, and the voice said, "You have every right to fish where you please…he shouldn't have struck you…"

Arabelle tried to justify the man, "I shouldn't have trespassed. He was only doing what he knew would keep me away. He didn't want me stealing his fish!"

The watcher was thinking one resentful thought. _Or didn't want to look at your face!_

"Will you be able to fix it?"

It took a while for Arabelle to realize he was referring to the scar on her face. She patted it gingerly, "Aye…I've had worse."

She heard movement as the voice said, "Sleep now, Arabelle. I have things to do. But I'll be with you tomorrow night."

Arabelle nodded into the darkness, calling out a farewell, "Goodbye, friend. And God bless you for your kindness!" She still felt eternally grateful that she had gained this man's friendship, no matter how strange a form it was in.

The watcher turned, going towards the edge of the quarry and scaling the walls quickly. As he reached the top, he turned, looking down at the young girl curled up near the fire. He nodded, and then vanished into the night.

No one knew what started the fire. The farmer had woken up in the middle of the night due to the noise and the heat of the fire. The roof was well ablaze at this time and was licking at the walls.

Now in a panic, the farmer had roused his wife and gathered up what remaining possessions they could salvage. They made it out of the house just in time. The roof collapsed with a resounded crash and crackle as the flames leapt high.

The farmer and his wife stood on top of the hill overlooking their burning house. The woman wept openly for the loss of their house, for they were poor and didn't have much. The man simply stood, his eyes hard in the light of the fire, his arms crossed.

Suddenly, the man stood rigid. He squinted. There, set against the glow of the flame, was the outline of a monstrous figure. It seemed to be a man, but much larger and of a deformed posture. It was leaping out of the remains of the burning house. The farmer only had a moment to observe it, as it darted away out into the open, sprinting towards the forest with superhuman speed.

Arabelle slept on, blissfully unaware of the catastrophe taking place not more than five miles from where she lay. Her own fire was dwindling down but still casting a reddish glow of her.

The watcher was back. He was bathed in sweat, grimy with soot and ash. But he lay on his stomach, chin propped up on his arms as he surveyed the scene before him. He had good eyesight and could see the girl well, even from his position on the rim of the quarry.

The watcher thought the girl was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. He had seen other girls. He thought them all beautiful…but none like this girl.

_I never knew there were humans as unfortunate as I…_

He watched he with soft eyes. She was lying on her side but slightly twisted. Her arms were stretched out slightly before her, and her head rested on her arms. The good side of her face was visible in the firelight. Her long lashes cast a shadow over her cheek. Her lips looked even redder in the light, full and beautiful. Her skin was a honey-gold color, and her hair, which fell framing her face and would stir gently each time she breathed, was a soft flaxen color.

_She's beautiful…_

He had never seen anyone like her. The deformed side of her face did not bother him. _She's brave and strong to live with a face like that…_

And to not be bitter and resentful towards those who hated her?

_Shall I not hate those who abhor me?_

Maybe she's happier because she doesn't hate them… 

Settling down a bit more, the watcher prepared to sleep. But before he closed his eyes, he took one last, long look at the girl, and breathed in a soft murmur.

"Sleep, sweet angel, and may I meet thee in the land of dreams, where no darkness shall hide me from thine own pure eyes."


	3. Named for an Angel

Chapter III

Named for an Angel

Arabelle woke early that morning, stretching and shaking dew from her limbs. Her fire was dead of course, but she didn't mind. She wasn't too hungry. That fish had filled her up sufficiently. And she had been even more content with the friendship she received from the stranger.

Rising slowly, Arabelle stretched again, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She felt at the wound on her cheek. It wasn't bleeding as much anymore, but needed to be fixed. She grimaced. She hated doing this. It was painful. Oh well…it had to be done.

Picking up her staff again, Arabelle turned eastward. She began walking, dreading the coming ordeal. She patted the dagger tucked in her belt, sighing loudly. A sting of bitterness hit her. That farmer had no right to hit her like that!

_No…don't think that way…it'll only make things worse_.

Arabelle had long ago realized that thinking vengeful and bitter thoughts only made things more painful. If she could keep herself from the anger that might have poisoned her innocent heart, she would be happier. And she was. She was happier than anyone with a face like hers could have been.

Arabelle reached the bank of a small pond. It was too small to be a proper pond, but that was the only other word for it. It had perfectly clear water, a good reflecting pool. Arabelle normally avoided this pond. But she had to visit it now. And it was painful every time.

Kneeling down on the bank, Arabelle drew her dagger. She looked into the water. She saw her face then. The milky white orb stared back at her, hideous to behold. Her bared teeth made her visage turn to a snarling apparition. Arabelle flicked away a threatening tear. She couldn't let her skin grow damp, or the process of fixing her wound wouldn't work.

The watcher had once again followed Arabelle, keeping to the shadow of the trees. His eyes never left the girl. She scrubbed gingerly at her good eye, and he felt a pang hit him. He wasn't sure what she was going to do, but…

She drew her dagger. The watcher's eyes widened as she placed her free hand against the damaged side of her face. She pulled the skin taught and angled her head down so she could look at her reflection.

The watcher sucked in his breath as the girl brought the dagger blade close to her skin.

Arabelle drew in her breath, preparing herself.

She couldn't help but flinch, closing her eyes and giving a sharp cry as the blade cut through her skin. She twisted the blade a few times, feeling tears prick her eyes. She stayed firm, her entire body tensing as pain sent flames down her cheek.

The watcher let out his own cry as the girl cried out. She had just used the dagger on her own face! He could tell she was in pain as her eyes closed tightly. Then he saw her eyes open and she angled her head back to look into the water.

The watcher saw a ripple break the surface of the water as a tear fell from the girl's eye. He felt sadness fill him. The poor girl!

_Such a sweet angel should never suffer inflicting pain on herself!_

All because that brute of a man had struck her!

_He struck her…a poor, sweet angel…_

The anger filled him again. He shouldn't have left the man alive. He should have killed him in his sleep!

Arabelle continued cutting the small holes in her skin all along the scar on her cheek. Blood continued to seep from the small cuts, but she kept at it, tears standing in her eyes. She had to flick them away as she worked.

At last, it was over. Arabelle gasped out in pain, shoving her hands into the cool, clear water. She then drew her wet fingers up to her face, cleaning the blood from the small holes. She then dabbed at them with the hem of her tunic, sniffing with the pain. Then, gathering herself once more, she separated a long piece of thread from her ragged tunic, licking the end and leaning over the water again.

The watcher saw the girl finish her work.

_Arabelle…what are you doing to yourself?_

He watched as she leaned over the water again, pulling the loose flap of the slit skin up, grunting with the pain. She then slid the thin thread into the first hole, beginning to stitch up the scar. The watcher sat, fascinated. She moved deftly, as if she had done this often, which she had, though it never grew less painful.

The watcher leaned down, pressing himself up against the trunk of a tree. The cruelty of the others…it wasn't right…it just wasn't right!

"It doesn't matter," he spoke in a voice barely audible, "I'm here to look after you now…no one will ever touch you again."

He opened his eyes, looking at the girl with a renewed affection. He felt he had a certain kinship with the girl. And he would look after her. He would always be there to watch over her. No one…_no one_…would ever touch her. And no one else was worthy of her affection.

She was his…and only his.

Arabelle lay on the bank of the pool, breathing deeply. The blood had stopped at last. The scar still hurt, but it wasn't as bad anymore. She sighed, rolling over onto her stomach and leaning out over the water again, this time scooping some of it up into her hand and drinking. The reflection of her form was distorted as her hands disturbed the surface of the water.

As she drank, Arabelle planned out the rest of her day. She needed to forage for food…oh, and she needed to get some materials to sew patches in her ragged clothing. But she would have to sneak into town to get that…she didn't like to be seen. The first time she had come to this village, she had been willing to show herself to strangers. But it had the same result. She had been driven away, all because of her hideous face.

Arabelle rose to her knees, standing painfully. She rubbed at her hands. They stung slightly, probably from gripping the dagger so hard. She felt that old anger returning, the bitterness threatening to poison her. But she contained it. If she grew bitter…it would only get worse. No use in it…she had her friend now. That was reason enough to rejoice in her good fortune.

Yes…good fortune. She counted herself lucky. A friend who looked at her face and saw past her hideousness was a true friend. Not everyone had that. She was the luckiest person alive.

The watcher had hurried away, deciding what he would do. He would help the poor girl in any way he could. He had helped her catch fish…he could help her forage or hunt. He would help her in whatever way! He owed it to her. She was his friend, even if she had never seen his face.

_One day…I'll be able to stand before her in broad daylight…and she won't run away. No…she will embrace me as a friend. Because she will see past this prison of myself._

That day was uneventful for Arabelle. She hadn't found much food. A few nuts that had fallen too early, some mushrooms and a few roots.

However, when she returned to her camp as the sun was setting, she found a sack filled with food. Cheese, apples, bread, even a leg of chicken. There was even a flagon of wine! Arabelle knew it was her friend. She sat down, quickly sampling some of the food. It was all fresh. Where had he gotten it? Perhaps he had bought it in town.

As she sat there eating, Arabelle contemplated. How could she ever repay her friend? She had no money to give him, no valuables. Surely there was _something_…

"Do you like it all?"

Arabelle looked up into the darkness, smiling, "Aye, very good! Thank you so much…I don't know how to make it up to you."

"Just give me more smiles to look at and I'll call it even," came the voice.

Arabelle smiled again, taking another bite of cheese. She had to do something to make it up to him…

_He said he didn't have a name…what if I gave him one? Everyone needs one!_

Arabelle wasn't sure how to go about giving him one. First of all, she had to make sure he wanted one.

"Could I ask you a question?" she asked, and the voice answered, "Of course, Arabelle. What is it?"

"Well…it's somewhat embarrassing, I think," the girl said, rubbing the back of her neck.

"I don't mind…"

"Well…why don't you have a name?" Arabelle asked, finally putting the question.

A silence followed, and then the voice answered in a flat tone, "I was never given one. And I have no need for one."

Arabelle looked down, and then looked back at the darkness before her, "Everyone has need of a name. Would you like one?"

Another silence followed. Then a timid, "Yes…will you give me one?"

Arabelle scratched at the wide-open lid of her milky white eye as she tended to do when thinking. After a while, she said, "I once heard a name when I was a little girl in church. My grandmamma made me sit under the pew with a cloth sack over my head, but I didn't mind. I would still go if the villagers would let me. But I'm rambling. I heard a name as the father preached. Michael. He said it was the name of one of God's angels. Would you like to be named after an angel?"

This time, a very long silence followed. Arabelle wondered if she had offended him. Then the voice said in a somewhat choked tone, "An angel? I don't…I don't deserve the name of an angel."

Arabelle smiled into the darkness, "Of course you do! I haven't told you before…but I believe you are some form of angel sent to me. I've never had a real friend…you've changed that!"

The voice spoke in a strained voice, as if clogged by tears, "I'm no angel…but you…_you_ must be an angel! Arabelle…that means 'answered prayer' doesn't it?" The voice faltered.

Arabelle felt touched. She wanted so much to see him! "So I'll call you Michael?"

"Yes…and to hear that name from your sweet lips makes is all the better."

Arabelle smiled happily, "Michael! I love to say it! I've always liked that name! I'm so glad you do too!"

Michael, though his face was hidden in the darkness, smiled as well, his cheeks wet with tears.

_She _is_ an angel…a pure, sweet angel. Arabelle…you don't realize it, do you? You must be the answer to my prayers. One day we will stand before each other with no darkness to hide me. And you will not run away. You will know it is me…Michael_.


	4. Hidden Tears

Chapter IV

Hidden Tears

Several weeks had passed since the incident with the farmer. Arabelle spent her days as she always did, foraging and hunting for her food. But she awaited the fall of darkness eagerly, anxious to speak to Michael. He still wouldn't show himself to her, but she felt herself growing closer to him every day.

They grew more and more familiar, and Arabelle was even able to know when he was coming by simple signs such as the certain sounds he made when approaching or the slight swirl of shadows he would cast with his particular movements. And of course, every night she fell asleep to his promise. His promise to look after her.

And every night, Michael would sit watching the sleeping girl, his eyes never leaving her face. He would meditate on the day. He made a point of following the girl throughout her daily activities, watching out for her. And he just enjoyed observing her, learning everything he could. And then, every evening, they would converse.

Arabelle discovered that Michael was an extremely intelligent man. He was well read, or at least spoke as if he was. Arabelle, alas, had never been properly educated. She could read a Bible, but nothing more. And her vocabulary was limited, though she made up for it with the tenderness of her voice and words.

Michael could tell that Arabelle was a very bright young girl. She learned quickly when he told her stories, and if he used a word she did not know, she was always eager to learn the meaning. Then she would contemplate it during the day and attempt to insert it into a sentence the next night.

But something that was a constant nagging desire to Arabelle was the desire to look at her only friend. He had told her he had some unfortunate characteristics…but Arabelle could handle them. Wasn't she deformed herself? She wanted to see Michael so badly! To be able to reach out and touch him and know he was actually real.

Still he refused. Well, it was all right for him, sitting there, able to see her…she couldn't only look out at the point she thought his voice was coming from.

Well…his voice was enough for her as of now.

"Arabelle…can you sing at all?"

Arabelle was taken aback by this question. All night they had spoken about various things, as was their custom. Michael had never asked her something like this before.

The good side of her face tingeing red as the cruel blotches on the deformed mask turned a deeper shade of blackish-purple, Arabelle smiled shyly, her mouth turning to a lopsided squiggle of flashing teeth. She answered modestly.

"Oh…I like to sing…but I sound like a crow in the middle of a coughing fit."

A deep chuckle greeted this claim, "I highly doubt that, Arabelle…please sing something for me."

"I will if you sing for me!"

Silence. Then…

"I never learned how to sing…I don't think I'd like it."

Was that a strange grating of his throat that had caused that hoarse screech of the last two words?

"You never know until you try, Michael."

"No…" the answer was emphatic.

Arabelle fell silent, then asked meekly, "If I sing for you…will you let me see you?"

More silence. Then…

"No, sweet child…not yet…wait a little longer."

Arabelle looked down, sighing. She heard rustling on the edge of the forest. Michael sounded as though he were moving closer.

"Come to the edge of the firelight, Arabelle."

Arabelle stood slowly, her heart thrumming. What was he doing? She obeyed him, coming to the edge of the light and waiting. She heard him coming towards her…

Then she felt breath on her cheek. She sighed. She was so close to him…and yet she could not see him.

"Arabelle…you are the only person in this world that I care for. You are the only friend I have."

Arabelle looked down at her feet, almost shyly. But what was he getting at?

"If you saw me…it might ruin all this."

"Oh, Michael, how can you say that?" she asked, swallowing a type of hurt, "I care so much about you! I've lived my life at the mercy of human opinion…and I know how cruel it is. I would never judge you by something in your outward appearance! You're too dear to me!"

"Ah, sweet angel! I am blessed to know you!"

Arabelle felt skin brush her arm. Warmth filling her, she reached out in the darkness to return the caress, only to hear Michael withdraw, shuffling across the ground as he gasped out, "No! I'm sorry…"

Arabelle was confused, "Michael, what's wrong? Did I do something?"

Michael's voice trembled, "No…you…you just mustn't touch me…I'm sorry…"

Arabelle bit back something, feeling confusion fill her. Surely…why wouldn't Michael want her to touch him?

"I didn't mean to, Michael…I'm sorry…" She turned from him, heading back to the fire.

"Arabelle…wait…"

She turned again, looking into the darkness.

"You're all I have…I won't risk losing you. You have to trust me."

A gummy tear fell from Arabelle's blind eye. She looked down.

"You're crying…please don't cry…"

It was such a pitiful sounding plea…so full of a pain Arabelle didn't fully understand.

"I'm just so tired, Michael…I guess I'm afraid…"

"Of me?" His voice had gone husky with restrained emotion.

"Oh, never!" she assured him hastily, "I'm…I'm afraid I'll lose you."

"I'll never leave you, Arabelle…" Another pause. "You're all I can call my own."

She felt her heart bursting with happiness. Oh, he was surely the answer to all the prayers she had breathed.

"Michael…even though I've never seen you, I trust you…I'd trust you with my life." She paused, then said, "You're beautiful, Michael…everything about you is beautiful to me…your voice, your words…"

Another sigh that seemed to break in the middle with emotion. Arabelle felt warm breath once again caressing her marred cheek. She closed her eyes wistfully.

"Promise me…"

His voice faltered, as if he was unsure whether to continue.

"Promise me you won't leave me…"

"Michael, I can't leave you. It's _you_ that must promise to never leave."

A shuffling just outside the firelight followed. Then Arabelle heard a soft pattering sound.

_Tears._ _Tears dripping onto the dead leaves._

"Oh, don't cry!" She began to reach out a comforting hand, but stopped, remembering his words.

A shuddering whisper, "_Arabelle…_"

An audible swallowing sound, then, in a disjointed string of choked words, "I will never leave you…and if you ever feel the need to leave this place…I will follow you. I'll always be near you. Always."

Arabelle gave a small smile, crouching down on the ground, hugging her shoulders into herself. She closed her good eye, sighing once, "That means a lot to me, Michael…more than you can ever guess."

"I think…I think I can."

The voice shifted now, and it was right in her ear. Michael whispered to her in a soft, gentle tone, "Sleep now, Arabelle…I'll be watching over you."

Arabelle sighed, spreading out on her side, tucking her head into the curve of her shoulders, closing her eyes. She hadn't realized how tired she was. She quickly fell into a deep slumber with the assurance that someone was watching out for her…and caring for her.

Michael sat, his back pressed against a tree. He was breathing heavily still, his heart attempting to leave his chest. He could still feel the warmth of Arabelle's touch on his arm. If only she knew…how much he wished she could see him…to stand before her with no shame or fear…

He blinked several times, banished tears. He had always had a difficult time producing tears. That part of his system didn't seem to be properly constructed. He often wished it was. The inability to properly convey emotions or allow them out was frustrating. Very frustrating.

You're beautiful, Michael…everything about you is beautiful to me… 

That's what she had said.

He sighed again, not sure if that feeling inside him was painful because of the intensity or because of the fear it produced.


	5. Mirror of Memories

Chapter V

Chapter V

Mirror of Memories

Arabelle lay amid the wreckage of what had once been a lean-to. She was soaked in sweat, curled into a protective position as she nursed several bruises forming about her face and neck as a merciful rain bathed her bloodied limbs.

This was not the first time this had happened. A group of men, most of them young and violent, roamed about this region of the country. They claimed to be working for the good of mankind, purging the land of waste.

They considered her part of that waste.

It had happened before. She had encountered them two other times. Each time she had managed to get away. Despite her gentle disposition, she could fight fiercely if need be. There had been five this time. They had snuck up to her shelter, battering down the tent-like structure and scattering her small fire, kicking sparks and burning embers towards her, resulting in agonizing burns on her shoulders. One had grabbed her from behind as the other set upon her with a knife. She had been able to free one of her arms to swat away the knife, but one of the other men began to beat her savagely about the head and neck. Then she had freed one of her legs and kicked outward, catching her attacker on the chin. At that point she wriggled free and escaped into the surrounding trees. The men searched for her, but she was able to easily escape them. So they destroyed what was left of her lean-to and departed, shouting vows to rid the world of her kind, knowing she could hear them.

Arabelle returned to her wrecked shelter, too exhausted to feel any wrath or sorrow. She had simply flopped down in a muddy groove of shuffled leaves, allowing the rain to wash away the blood and soot. Her burned shoulders ached painfully, but she didn't bother with them. A merciful sleep, more of a swoon than anything else, came upon her.

So she lay, silent and unmoving, no one to care, no one to notice. Just a wet orphan, the reject of society, lying alone and unwept for in the mud of corruption, her pure blood mixing with the powder of violent cruelty. Still alive, but carrying more scars and marks of a people that could not understand, and _would_ not understand.

In this way, Michael found her. He was almost always at her side, but he had gone to find some form of food he could offer her in the morning when she woke. However, when he returned, carrying some items he had foraged, he found her as one who is dead. All he could see was the pale outline of her face, purple lashes of scarring across her cheeks, turned upward to the sleeking rain, and the irregular pattern of new blood.

Panic caused him to throw caution to the winds. He lumbered awkwardly to her side, taking hold of her by the shoulders. He felt the blistered skin and the slippery heat of the blood. He then saw by the reflection of the meager moonlight on rainwater the outline of a footprint. Well-shod feet had made those tracks. And he could deduce what had happened.

Rage was kindled within him, much like the emotion he had felt when Arabelle had told him of the farmer. But as he looked on Arabelle's face, swollen from the cruel beating, he felt that rage grow stronger, until it threatened to rob him of reason. But he turned his attention back to Arabelle's predicament.

Stroking wet hairs from her scarred forehead, Michael called softly to Arabelle, "Arabelle…angel…awake. It's Michael. I'm here." Irregular tears came to his ill-formed eyes. Hadn't he promised her that no one would ever hurt her? Had he already failed her?

Why had he left her side, even for that short moment? He should have waited until she woke! Why was he such a fool? He berated himself harshly, feeling a sort of disappointment grip him.

Bowing his head, he let the tears fall as he choked out, "I'm sorry, sweet one…I promised…I didn't…I promised!"

But even as he let the tears jerk from his eyes, he couldn't help feeling a thrill of excitement. He was holding her in his arms! Trembling as he was, he could feel her warmth against him. If she waked…he wouldn't hide himself. He would let her see him! Yes! Yes, he had decided!

But, oh, the spirit is willing, the body is weak. Arabelle began to moan, her single eye beginning to flicker open.

Michael panicked. No…maybe she wasn't ready to see him yet. Not yet. Placing her gently against the wet earth, Michael hastened back into the cover of the trees, stopping a short distance away to watch her.

Arabelle slowly opened her eye fully. She gave out a thin moan of pain, arching her back in a contortion of agony. Michael gnawed at his lip. He wanted so much to rush out and comfort her again, to let her know he was there. He was about to call to her…but she would see that he wouldn't compromise his identity for her…but then, if he didn't call to her…would she think he had abandoned her?

Arabelle rolled onto her side, coughing up soot and retching blood. She wasn't as hurt as she was shocked and shaken. The worst of her injuries were the burns on her shoulders. She allowed rain to fall on her stinging wounds, feeling the soothing mud creating a type of poultice on her back as she lay there. She stifled any tears that might have come. None…it didn't seem to matter anymore.

Michael watched her, his heart aching for her. How he wished that he could rip aside the barrier of the woods and go to comfort her with gentle hands and words…but he didn't dare. As sweet at Arabelle was, and as much as he knew she cared for him, he wouldn't risk it.

Not yet.

But he felt tears blurring his malformed eyes as he heard Arabelle's pain-filled voice begin to drift through the rain to him. She was singing softly and brokenly, pausing every once in a while in order to choke back a sob.

"You have made me by Your own hand,

I am one of Yours, claimed by You.

I am secured a place in Your promised land,

None shall take it, Your word is true.

My face was kissed by angels pure

As I descended to this world of mortal woe.

I follow a Master straight and sure

As on this walk of life I must now go.

My face is beauty in Your worthy sight,

I was made in Your heavenly image true.

But my mortal eyes shall see Your undying light

As You are with me to see me in this trial through."

And Arabelle turned her face into the muddy earth and was silent. Michael could not tell if the quaking of her shoulders came from weeping or simple weariness. But tears blurred his vision. Her voice was beautiful, even when clogged by tears, mournful, tragic, resigned to a life of sorrow. Beautiful…the voice of a grief-stricken angel.

An angel with crippled wings, doomed to a life of exile on this cruel earth.

Early morning. The rain had stopped. Arabelle had at last fallen into a broken slumber, caked in the mud and blood of her struggle. But as the sun rose, gleaming down with soft intensity on her weary limbs, she woke, looking up through her smeared eye, seeing the glorious sky.

She rose, stretching sore and battered limbs. She was filthy. Looking down at herself, she knew she would have to bathe in the pool nearby. She sighed heavily. She hated this horrible process. It was something she tried very hard to avoid…but she couldn't now.

Limping to the smoldering fire, she kicked aside the wet shards of charcoal, scattering whatever warmth there was left in the wet wood. She then turned, going east into the woods, still moving slowly and painfully. She didn't see the shadow that rose to follow her.

She had reached the pool. She now stood before it, looking down into the depths. She sighed painfully, kicking a pebble into the water to distort the image she saw there. But this was a painful process she had to do.

Slowly she began to remove her tunic, letting it fall from her shoulders. She looked down at the settling water. She stifled tears. Her body, though fit from years of harsh survival, was still marred with the deformity. She shook her head. It didn't matter.

Stepping into the pool and sucking in her breath at the cold bite of the water, she began the process of bathing. She stood in a shallow bank where the water only came up to her knees. She bent, scooping up the cold water and gingerly cupping it to her arms, legs and chest. She washed her face gently, careful to wipe away all the blood and mud. The cold water stung her burn wounds, but after a while they felt slightly soothing.

Michael had gotten a bit turned around back in the forest. He had panicked, worried that he had lost her. But he at last picked up her trail, and was now far more cautious, afraid that he would stumble upon her in the open and she might see him. He reached the pool, taking up his position behind the trees. He paused, looking through the screen of leaves.

Arabelle was bathing herself in the pond, her fair body reflected in the clear water. She was slender yet strong looking, her delicate curves gradual but soft. She had wonderful features, but it was all marred by the long stripe of the deformity that traveled down her side, then wrapped around her back and ended near her thigh. Cruel ridges marked her back, the scars and burn blisters further derangements.

Michael stared in absolute fascination. He had never seen a female so bare before. Keep in mind that he was innocent of many of the lusts a man might have conceived at such a sight. Curiosity and wonder was what drove him to stare. For don't all children stare in wonder at a strange new animal in total curiosity?

As his eyes traced down her back, he saw the strange lines across her shoulders and spine. What were those? Scars? They didn't seem to be part of the deformity. They were…

His anger rose then…_whip marks!_ Someone had beaten his Arabelle with a whip! Though the marks were old, they still angered him greatly. But he stayed where he was, simply watching her.

Arabelle, as she stroked water from her limbs, saw the whip marks in the water. She sighed, her mind going back unbidden to those unhappy memories.

"_Sir, please! I only wanted to hear him read the Bible!"_

_A fierce slap to her mutilated cheek silenced Arabelle as she was kicked roughly out of the church, falling painfully across the steps. She scrambled up, holding out her hands pleadingly, her voice appealing to the man, "Please! Please let me listen! I have a coin to give to the offering box, see?" She held up a single pfenig._

_The man, obviously one of the town officials, laughed harshly, "Where did you get that? Stole it off someone? You're a thief and a witch!" He kicked at her again, catching her between the ribs. Arabelle was thrown roughly back, her breath knocked from her. She remained on her knees, her hands clasped in a desperate imploring motion, "Please, sir! Don't treat me so, it's not pleasing to the Lord, and I pray for your soul!"_

_"Yes, and your master the devil would come after me, would he? No, not your master…he must have sired you, you little pestilence!" He struck her again, this time across the back of the neck. She didn't cry out, but fell forward. As she did so, a small, worn New Testament fell from the folds of her ragged cloak._

_The man snatched the book up, waving it under the girl's nose, "Who did you steal this from?"_

_Arabelle's single eye widened, "No, I didn't steal it! It was my mother's, but I can't read and I wanted to ask someone to read to me from it. Oh, please give it to me, sir! It's all I have!"_

_The man threw the book over his shoulder. Arabelle cried out as if she had been struck. The man gritted cruelly, "No…who knows what sort of hex you would have worked on it, witch! We know how to deal with thieves here!"_

_He grabbed her by the hood of her cloak, dragging her cruelly with him to the small center of town. On a scaffold was a post. A crowd had been drawn by the scene inside the church and around it. Churchgoers and those who ignore the holy day alike nodded in approval when they saw the official's intentions. _

_Arabelle found herself bound to the post, her back arched painfully to the audience that had gathered. Fear gathered in her eyes as the man returned, holding something in his hand. Her single eye, which had been wet with tears over the loss of her mother's book, widened when she saw that the object was a whip…and not just any whip. A horse whip. _

_"No, oh no, please, in the name of our Savior, please don't do this thing!"_

_She winced as something heavy struck her on the shoulder. A voice from the crowd called out jeeringly, "Don't disgrace the name of our Lord with your demon's mouth, half-face thief!"_

_The word 'thief' and 'demon' ran through the crowd, and they all believed it. An honored official claimed that she had stolen…so it must be true. And besides, someone with such a distorted face must have been made so because God rejected her. She was an unholy pestilence that needed to be scourged from their midst._

_Arabelle's cloak was ripped from her, and the man readied the whip. Silence fell over the crowd. They wanted to here the unholy one scream._

_Down came the whip! It made such a stinging noise on her back…but no cry came. But a mark, red with blood, showed through the torn tunic._

_Down it came again, harder! Still no cry._

_And down came the horsewhip again and again! They wanted her to scream, wanted her to weep in pain. But nothing came from her deformed mouth._

_At last the sentence had been carried out. The girl's back, from which the tunic had been all but ripped away, was red and sticky with blood. But still no sound came._

_Arabelle had her forehead pressed to the post, and her lips were moving silently. If you had read her lips, you would have seen that she was praying, long, hard and earnestly. And the last thing that she mouthed before she was ripped away from the post was, "Forgive them, Lord."_

_She was banished from that town, one she had only been in for a few hours. She had only come to hear the Sunday sermon…and she had been flogged._

_But as she limped further into the forest, ducking the missiles thrown at her from the town fringes, she looked up through her tear misted, blood blind eye and whispered, "Thank you, Lord…I heard them say the Lord's Prayer."_

Sitting down on the bank, Arabelle scooped up cool mud and began applying it to her shoulders. Bank mud was always the best to put on wounds. She would let it sit for a moment, then wash it clean again. She hadn't noticed, but tears had been running down both cheeks. From her right eye, the tears were clear and sweet as angel tears. From the left eye, they were yellow and milky with the strange fluid that leaked from the sightless orb. They dripped into the water. The milky tears seemed to disappear as they hit the water, but the pure tears seemed to banish the mud that Arabelle's movements had stirred. It left a clear ring in the foggy surface.

Arabelle sat thus, looking up at the sun as it rose. She needn't fear anyone stumbling upon her. This place was secret. She was very protective of her modesty. She couldn't bear the thought of anyone ever seeing her so naked. So as a precaution, she took her wet and newly washed tunic, laying it across herself. She lay back, closing her eyes for a moment and enjoying the new breeze of the day.

There was no sense dwelling on the past. But she still prayed for that town official's soul every day.

Michael had not taken his eyes from Arabelle. He continued watching her, feeling his heart yearning to her. Such hardships she must have seen in her life! More than he had ever known, surely…and how horrible that her own kind should treat her so!

_No…she must not be an offspring of man. She's an angel. I know she is. _

He looked at her again, that same thought dwelling in his mind.

_She's _my_ angel._


	6. By Firelight

Chapter VI

By Firelight

"Arabelle…may I touch your face?"

Arabelle's single eye misted with tears, "Of course, Michael. I would never refuse you anything." She rose, going to the edge of the circle of light. She stepped into the darkness, hearing Michael's seemingly labored breathing beside her. Then she felt something brush her cheek. Michael was stroking her face with his fingertips, a show of gentle affection. However, nothing but his fingertips touched her.

Arabelle wanted so much to reach out and return the caress, take his hand, do anything…but she knew it would not please him. She simply allowed herself to enjoy this slight, half contact with him. When he drew his fingers away, she felt the warmth leave her cheek. She gave a sigh that was answered by Michael's own breathing.

"Thank you…"

Arabelle smiled crookedly, looking into the shadows. He was only inches away from her! Mere inches! Oh, if only he wouldn't be so afraid!

"How much longer, Michael?"

He was taken aback by the question. "How much longer till what?"

Arabelle felt the frustration creeping up her throat, "How much longer until you will let me see you?"

A step back, then a pause. His voice was strained, "I told you…when that time comes…"

"_When _will it come, Michael?"

"Angel, I want you to be ready -"

"I _am _ready! I've been ready since I first heard your voice!" She looked into the shadows pleadingly, "Michael, I so want to see you."

A pause. Then a movement, and Arabelle knew that he was moving away from her. She felt panic rise in her breast, and she called out, rather pitifully, "Oh no, don't leave, I didn't -"

The rapid shuffling noise hinted at Michael's hurried return, his voice soothing her with soft tones, "No, angel, I wasn't leaving you…I never would. I just…"

In the next pause, Arabelle spoke, freer than she had meant to, "Michael, I'm about to go mad! I could never feel closer to anyone…could never love anyone like I love you…I could never trust anyone more, and you don't trust me enough to show yourself to me!" She felt guilt pricking at her as she threw these last words almost accusingly at him. She felt even worse when she heard his sharp intake of breath, as if he had just been struck.

He seemed to swallow before speaking again, "Arabelle, if you saw me you would be afraid."

Arabelle felt tears of frustration and longing fill her good eye, "Michael, how can you think that of me? Look at me!" She tilted her face back into the firelight, letting the golden tongues illuminate her deformity in all its grisly detail.

Again, no answer. Arabelle stifled an angered sob. Her rapid change in mood had been frightening to both her friend and herself. But it was too much for her. She loved Michael more than he would ever know…and he would not let her see him! Was he afraid of her? Did he not truly know her?

She turned back to the firelight, going to sit near the warmth, brushing tears away angrily. She knew she was being childish, unreasonable, cruel to him. But she wanted to see him, wanted to look at him! She wanted to see the eyes she always felt on her!

"Arabelle?"

It was choked, as if by stifled tears. She didn't turn to his voice, the curtain of her hair hiding her face. Michael drew as close to the edge of light as he dared, calling out again, almost brokenly, "Arabelle…must I? If I didn't…would you…"

He had to gather himself before continuing, "If I show myself to you…promise you won't run. Promise me…"

She turned her face upwards, eye wide with burdened joy, trust shining in them, "Michael, I would never run from you! Never!"

Another sigh, this time of resignation.

He was terrified as he approached even nearer to the light. His heart hammered loudly in his chest, his throat constricting with a mixture of fear and excitement. Isn't this what he had longed for? For her to see him, to stand before her with no shadow between them?

Yes…_yes!_ It was time! She was ready, and so was he!

_She won't run from me…she will throw her arms about me! I will be free!_

But as she began to draw closer to the ring of shadow, he felt all the confidence fall away. What if he frightened her…what if she ran?

_It would destroy me…_

He couldn't hide forever…

And the pain in her eye, the furious longing that matched his own…

Arabelle stepped into the shadows, feeling a hand brush hers. Fingers grasped her wrist. They moved up to her face, softly touching the deformed side. Arabelle trembled as fingers caressed her twisted lips and her scarred cheek. Michael spoke in a whisper, "I can bear to watch you…I see past this outer prison. I adore you, Arabelle…I've never seen anyone as beautiful as you. Please see past my own unfortunate characteristics…don't run away from me like the others!"

Arabelle touched Michael, promising, "I won't…I'm not like the others."

The girl slid her hand to meet Michael's wrist. She ran her fingers over his palm and hand. It was a _big_ hand…but had a strange texture, corded and roughly fleshed. She could feel bumps along the flesh…as if there were stitch marks.

Michael took Arabelle's wrist and gently moved it to his chest. Arabelle ran her hand over his chest. Hard muscles were felt through the varying skin. She felt coarse skin, thick skin, thin skin, smooth skin…all separated by those same fences of stitch marks. Fear began to invade her senses, but for the sake of her friend, she didn't withdraw. She felt breath on her face as she ran her hand up Michael's neck, feeling the lack of skin in some places, revealing raw muscles.

Her hand at last brushed Michael's face. He was so tall she had to stand up on her toes to reach it. His chin…it was not even, not fully connected properly to his jaws. One side of his face was bigger than the other. His cheeks…scarred with stitch marks and not fully filled in with flesh but revealing raw muscle and sinews. His lips…the lower one didn't belong with the top one, she could tell by the feel. One side was larger than the other, and one side was twisted into a wrinkled expression. Her thumb brushed one of his eyes. They were almost too small for the sockets. His brows were not proportional. Thick, long hair brushed her arms as she touched it, feeling it.

Arabelle felt disbelief cloud her. Surely…no one could be so hideously deformed and scarred that his body was not all his own?

"What…what _happened?_"

Arabelle felt Michael's large hand take hers, pressing it to his cheek as the familiar voice spoke in a choked whisper, "I was created…please don't judge me as something I never wanted to be!"

Arabelle took his hands, a thrill of fear filling her. They were trembling…hers were trembling. His hands enveloped hers. They clung tightly. Both were afraid. One of what she would see. One of what she would think. Both of what they might destroy.

Taking slow steps, Arabelle led Michael into the ring of fire light. He seemed to resist at first, but the gentle grip of her hand coaxed him on. Not looking at him yet, Arabelle led him right up to the fire, her heart beating wildly. She longed to see him…she wanted this more than anything.

_Don't I?_

_Turning slowly, Arabelle beheld Michael._


	7. Through a Glass Darkly

A/N: Bwaha! Thought I was dead, did ya? Many thanks to ColeandPhoebeForever for all her help, inspiration, and especially for her friendship! And to all my other readers, I love y'all!

Chapter VII

As Through a Glass Darkly

Arabelle stared. She couldn't help it. Horror was stamped on her features.

The face that looked back at her was hideous, far worse than her own. Not one bit of it was normal. Stitches and skin of various colors and textures were sown clumsily over the muscles. His lips were thin and black, and his brows cast a shadow over his eyes. He had long black hair growing from his uneven brow, falling down his shoulders. He was clothed in a ragged shirt, torn and open at the chest, and canvas pants that were cut off at the knee. They were all too small for him. His muscles were huge and bulging, bursting through the seams of his skin. He was at least eight feet tall, towering over the girl, his shadow enveloping her with a smothering darkness.

A moment of stricken silence. Then Arabelle let forth a strangled scream of sheer terror, automatically throwing her hands up before her eyes, repulsed beyond words at his hideous appearance.

Michael's face, which had been set in a distorted expression of hope, a heart-breaking eagerness tempered with unknowable anxiety, creased further into a mask of pain. He seemed to jolt towards Arabelle, arms out, pleading inwardly that he would be allowed the joy of drawing the slim little figure into his embrace.

But Arabelle, seeing him approach her, gave another cry of fear, starting away from him and putting the fire between herself and the creature before her.

Furious disappointment and longing caused Michael to begin beseeching her, pleading madly with her, "No, angel, don't fear me! You promised not to run…you _promised_!"

At the sound of his voice, so familiar and well-loved, the girl searched his face, eye still wide with the horror of his deformity, tears gleaming like golden scars in the firelight, gilding her patchwork cheek in a macabre beauty that took Michael's breath away. But as she looked at him, she shook her head, despair coming over her face as she backed away, hissing in a frightened whisper, as if to herself, "No…no, no…"

"Arabelle!" He stepped around the fire, approaching her and reaching out for her, suddenly crazed with a wild need for her touch, for her acceptance. But with a sudden shriek, Arabelle sprang back into the shadows, disappearing from sight altogether. Michael followed her into the darkness, hearing her footsteps moving off to his left, then halting. He could hear her sobbing breath, as if she were about to burst into tears of fear and sorrow. Pain, despair, bitter disappointment…Michael did not know which of these emotions was strongest in him.

_She promised…she promised!_

"Arabelle…please, come back…I merely want to-"

He heard her begin to move away again, and yelled out in agonized desperation, "Will you run from me, too? Sweet girl, I thought you knew me! It's still your Michael! Please!"

He began to move towards the source of her sounds, but heard her tear-choked voice sob out, "No! No, keep away!"

A moan of desolation, unfathomable grief, cut the darkness between them. It took Michael a few moments to regain his composure before he pleaded with her again, his voice beseeching, "Angel…angel, do you fear me? I warned you…I didn't want you to see…to see _this!_" A pause. "Oh, angel, I would not hurt you for the world! Don't run from me…"

Arabelle cut him off, speaking in fear, "You're a monster!"

Pain stabbed Michael's scarred heart as she said this. She was the only being in the world he cared for. He adored her. He had admitted to himself…he loved her! In what way, he didn't know, but he knew he loved her. Was she to betray him also?

But the sobs issuing from the darkness hinted at her own unhappiness. She was not merely frightened. She felt betrayed…as much as he himself did.

He fell clumsily into a sitting position, disabled by his grief. He could only pressed two huge fists to his eyes and weep, though the malformed condition of his throat seemed to mute his sobs.

Arabelle's own position mimicked his, as she was slumped on the ground, her face pressed to the dirt as she sobbed from fear and a sudden sense of loss. There was a part of her that seemed to whisper gently but firmly, "Don't be afraid of him…what does it matter if he looks so hideous? Isn't that what you are?"

But her fear and repulsion, the instinctive rejection of such an unnatural creature, overpowered her heart. She felt self-loathing drowning her very soul, cursing herself for a hypocrite and a traitor. Yet all the artistic portrayals of demons she had seen, lining the walls of holy places and Bible leafs had imprinted a prejudice against such an unnatural form. Yet now she did not recall that one demonic image from a holy book of a female child, one side of the snarling face a twisted mesh of scars and growths.

Even through her fear, however, the assurance of his voice…that it was truly him…seemed to press upon her like a gentle oppressor, an undeniable truth that only awaited her acceptance.

What was it she had said to him?

_I would never run from you. Never._

And hadn't she forced him to reveal himself?

_I could never trust anyone more, and you don't trust me enough to show yourself to me!_

A scream, not of fear but of self-hatred, burst from her mangled mouth, and she rose from the ground, hurling herself back into the firelight, her eye wild with sudden determination. But the clearing was deserted. Michael was nowhere to be seen or heard.

If she had not been a fervent Christian, Arabelle might have succumbed to her self-hatred at that moment and ended her life in the sudden onslaught of despair. But she did not. She simply stood beside the fire, her breast heaving and her malformed cheek streaked with gummy tears. Then she managed to call out, though her voice emerged as a hoarse croak.

"Michael! Michael, don't leave!"

Michael's despair had robbed him of his strength, and he could only crawl away at a slow pace. That was why he was still within earshot when Arabelle's weak cry for him came through the heavy night air like a sad little spirit. He turned his face wearily in the direction of the firelight, hope not daring to raise its head again after it had been so cruelly abused. But when the cry was repeated, followed by a barely intelligible "I'm sorry," he immediately altered his course, limping rapidly back to the clearing, but pausing at the edge of the firelight as of old.

Arabelle saw his shadow, felt her relief and her affection for him overpowering her, and gave out a gasp of confused emotions. Then, without any hesitation, she rushed into the darkness and threw herself into Michael's arms, grasping onto his misshapen shoulders with no inclination of ever letting go.

Michael's entire world seemed to shrink in that moment, shrink down until it enclosed only himself and the small figure that held onto him as if her very survival depended upon his touch. He hardly knew how to respond to her embrace, haltingly encircling her small waist with clumsy, trembling arms. When she did not move away from his heavy touch, he felt everything break within him, and pressed her to himself with an almost violent joy, nearly crushing her. But Arabelle, her face pressed to his heavily scarred chest, wept not from pain but from a mixture of fear and affection. She could feel her skin screaming in protest as the monstrous fingers traced over her arms and back, and her senses seemed allied against her emotions. But her feelings for Michael strengthened her.

"Michael…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…don't ever leave me, not ever!"

Hot, inky tears spattered onto Arabelle's neck as Michael pressed his forehead to hers, weeping unashamedly as he clutched her closer to himself, his sobs sounding like a dying animal's moans, something that both frightened and endeared him to Arabelle. She reached up to press her palms to his face, stifling a shudder at the feeling of the horrible deformities, feeling his chest heave with a tear-choked sigh. She steeled herself, gently pulling his head down and cradling it as one would a child's.

Michael remained bent over her shoulders, his sobs muted as his breath seemed to leave him. He clung to Arabelle, his head throbbing with the strength of his emotions, emotions he had never allowed himself to fully surrender to…until now. It was with difficulty that Arabelle moved away from his embrace, taking his massive hand in her own and leading him back into the light.

He entered the fiery ring, and Arabelle's heart again felt the stab of terror as she beheld him once again in all his hideous deformity. Tears sprang to her eyes anew. She could never ignore such ugliness…even when it was only the covering to such a noble and good soul. But she had to try…for his sake. Through the ruined mask of his face she could see the desperate desire for approval in his eyes, the inexpressible joy at her acceptance. She had to stay strong.

She opened her arms to him again, forcing a thin, crooked smile, "Michael…at last there is no darkness." She felt her throat burning on each word, and when he took her into another crushing embrace, she felt her insiders burning with terror and an instinctive repulsion.

_What have I done?_

She had altered forever a beautiful friendship. She didn't like to look at her own face. How could she bear looking at someone so hideously deformed as Michael was?

_But I care for him! He's Michael!_

Flinching slightly away from the stitch marks on Michael's chest, Arabelle forced herself to stay still in his embrace. He was right. It was still him. But she would never be able to look at him without feeling that quickening of her heartbeat in her chest from the sheer horror at seeing his ugliness.

Angling her head up, seeing the firelight leaping about the heavy ridges of his face, leaving his eyes dark holes of black nothingness, Arabelle stifled a sob. She reached out a trembling hand, touching his face, no matter how repulsive it was to her. She tipped his hideous head back, letting the light shine on his eyes. They were watery and tainted pale yellow…but the color was a blue…a pure blue. Arabelle ran her thumb over one of his eyes.

"They are your eyes…" She had never seen them, but just looking into them confirmed it. It _was_ Michael.

Michael, bending his tear-stained face to her, pressed his cheek to Arabelle's hair, softly stroking her cheeks as he said quietly, "You are the sweetest girl in this cruel world, Arabelle…I'm sorry I frightened you…I can't change the way I look."

Arabelle felt a pang of guilt hit her. He couldn't change his looks. She knew that. It wasn't his fault. But why was her opinion of him changed? She had to force herself not to shy away from his hands. Yes, she still loved him…but she wished now that she had never seen him…never met him.

_I am no better than the man who flogged me! Lord, why must I be such a hypocrite?_

But as his hands, large and rough but somehow of a gentle touch and a tenderness she could sense, traced over her own deformed face, she felt all doubts melt away. She pressed herself closer to him, steeling herself against the horrible scars, making an effort to trace every cruel line in his arms, feeling the rough stitch marks against her fingers, begging God to endear every deformity to her.

_Lord…how is it that I have become what I fear?_


	8. Torn Lips, Torn Words

A/N: Dearest, dearest, DEAREST readers (if any of y'all haven't lost faith in me) - I want to apologize PROFUSELY for taking so dang long on this story. I know, it's been over a year (or is it two?) since I updated. But last year was my first year of college, and to be honest my priority list has fanfiction toward the bottom. I do a lot more original writing now, too, which means fanfics get pushed back on the list of projects I work on.

I WILL NOT ABANDON THIS STORY. But I can't promise speedy updates. Michael and Arabelle are still very much alive and in my mind. I just have to put my energy to other things at this stage of my life. God bless you all!

Chapter VIII

Torn Lips, Torn Words

Arabelle's eye had become somewhat accustomed to the hideousness of Michael's appearance, and though she still started a bit when she saw him after a brief absence, there was no longer as much of a fear as there had been before. After the emotion-charged night of Michael's revelation to her, Arabelle had clung to his visage in a desperate attempt to steel herself to his ugliness. It was hard, sorrowful work, especially when she could not bear to see that desperation in his eyes. But slowly, scar by scar, she began to commit his form to her memory, in order to prepare herself in his absences for his reappearance.

But these absences were seldom, and Arabelle had been horrified to discover within herself the tendency to lose patience with Michael, to become slightly weary of him. Now that he felt that there were no boundaries between them, the poor monster would seldom leave Arabelle's side, and then only with great reluctance. He followed her about, never more than five paces from her, often standing as close as he dared, taking every opportunity that was presented to him to touch her, whether it be a simple finger on the hem of her garment, or a slight brush against her cheek with his gnarled knuckles. He seemed to live only for her attentions, as if merely losing sight of her would be the end of him. And Arabelle, while she still loved him as dearly as ever, if not more so, and understood the desperation within Michael to avoid at all costs a return to his former loneliness, began to resent this stationary stance he had taken…much to her sweet heart's confused grief.

It was not so much the constancy of his presence that caused her such distress as it was the inability to let her tears fall. Resigned as she was to the truth of Michael's identity, be he fiend or disguised angel, she could not quell the black grief and wild terror that seemed to fester in her breast like a parasite, clinging to the wall of her heart. Oh, her heart still leaped to hear his voice, still longed for his conversation, his company…but she often wished that he remained hidden in the shadows, unseen…so that she could only hear the beauty of his voice. She didn't dare to close her eye when he spoke to her, fearing that he would divine her reasons for doing so; to avoid seeing him. No, instead she delighted him by constantly forcing herself to touch his face, tracing each harsh scar and irregularity in his cheeks, jaw and brow. He would merely sit, bending over her as she, her arms upraised to him, stroked his face with a tenderness that was half affected, half genuine. She could not help but fear him, yet in the same, confusing paradox, she could not help but grow to love him even more.

But it was the night that brought Arabelle the most conflicting emotions. Michael now slept as close to her as he dared. Arabelle almost believed that, had she not made a point of curling herself into a protective ball every night, he would have attempted to sleep with her tucked in his arms. But he seemed satisfied with sleeping at her feet, his face angled up in such a way that her own face would be the first thing he should see upon waking.

One night Arabelle had waited for Michael to fall asleep, hearing his heavy breathing turn into snores. She began to rise from the ground, silent as any forest creature. But somehow Michael sensed her movements, and came awake. He made no attempt to stop her, but when she knew he was awake, she simply acted as if she were shifting positions. He mimicked her, again positioning himself to see her face upon the coming of light. Arabelle had felt her heart draw to his once again. Tears stained the ground beneath her that night, even as she slept. Oh, to love someone and yet fear them without reason, knowing that the fear is unconquerable yet groundless!

Despite her frustratingly persistent emotions of fear towards Michael, Arabelle always found an argument against her fears each day. When the monster found an excuse to caress her, and she shuddered from surprise, still unused to real human contact that was not violent, he always withdrew his mangled hands, making profuse apologies for frightening her with his coarse touch. Arabelle's heart would melt anew for him, and she would turn to him and welcome his touch. So it was today. But today Michael's pure and utter devotion to her struck the blow that would lead to a lingering yet final illness of her fears.

"Arabelle…" his voice was right next to her ear, causing a soothing calm to come over her, coupled with that instinctive tensing of the muscles, like a hunted beast, "I would like to…to tell you more…about myself."

The girl turned to him, her single eye widened in surprise, "I'd like that very much, Michael…if you feel that you are ready to tell me. I know before you were never too eager to speak of your past, but -"

Her hand was taken in his remarkably gentle grip. That was something that had astounded her - his hands, so huge and gnarled with crushing muscles, would touch her so tenderly and carefully. He leaned in closer to her, his eyes fixed on her face as he cut her short, "You deserve to know all…it was unfair to hide before…but when I thought I risked losing you…" Arabelle looked down quickly, biting at the ragged shred of her lip, giving his monstrous hand an affectionate, encouraging squeeze.

Michael, encouraged by this physical reassurance, knelt down slightly until he was eye-level with the girl, "But now you aren't afraid of me…you don't hate me for my ugliness. There is no wall between us, Arabelle, nothing to keep us separate in anything! I want you to know everything, and I want you to understand the pain I have carried for so long…the pain you have soothed for me."

Arabelle looked into the yellowed, sickly eyes of the monster-man kneeling before her. She smiled shakily, raising his hideous hand to her half-lips and kissing his vast palm. She saw his face, in all its horror, take on a dull sort of glow. She gave a soft, low laugh, cradling her head in the curve of Michael's hand and saying, almost cheekily, "Don't tell me things I already know, Michael…tell me whatever you like. I'll listen to you forever. Your voice is…it's how I always thought the Bible, if it could talk, would sound…"

_He is infinitely good…no evil dwells in him! I need not fear when he knows no wrong! I of all people should know that the outer shell is just that…a shell…a disguise we are charged with until all is made new._

Michael, who had given some sign of bemused pleasure at her comment about his voice, sat down with his legs crossed awkwardly beneath him, motioning for Arabelle to do the same. She did so, sitting close enough to rest her weather-hardened arms on one massive, malformed forearm. This gesture of trust and affection seemed to strengthen Michael, and he rhythmically stroked her wrists as he began his tale. At first the mere sound of his voice was enough to lull Arabelle, then, as his ragged fingers caressed her with endearing tenderness, she felt herself melting into his embrace, content to feel his pulse against her own. She thrust herself fully into his story, hanging on each syllable. He didn't linger on details or true narrative technique, though his story was compelling enough to ensnare any listener with the plainest of language. His strange, harsh birth into the world, the feeling of abandonment, the loss, the sudden discovery of pain and cruelty, the weariness that dogged him to his shelter, and the loneliness that drove him to observe the creatures that lived around him, oblivious to his presence.

"_I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept."_

Her arms had somehow wound themselves about his shoulders, and she felt the cruel texture of his skin tight against her fingers as she clutched at him. This was what had brought them together, the shared loneliness, the inability to combat the unfair foe, a complete helplessness. But the story changed when he began to speak of the family, of learning along with the one he called Safie. He spoke of learning letters, learning the craft of words, of learning. Arabelle had promised herself she would not interrupt him, but she could not hold back a sudden question when he paused for breath.

"How...how did you learn what the letters meant?"

Michael heard the slight quavering of her voice. She was trying to stifle her excitement, trying to refrain from the question he was prompting her to ask.

"I saw and remembered them. Come, I'll show you."

He took up a stick from near the fire pit, smoothing out a spot of earth with his gnarled paw. He turned to Arabelle, still feeling that sensation of bliss when he felt her breath wreathing his brutish face. He held out his hand, and Arabelle unquestioningly offered her own hand. She bit her tongue as the deformed fingers wound about hers...and then with an almost paralyzing sense of relief recognized the quickening of her pulse as a symptom of pleasure, not disgust.

"Two lines, like this…and a line just here."

Arabelle's eye lit up, "Yes! Yes, that's a letter! I've seen it before! But…" She felt a blush of shame heat her face, "…I don't know which it is…"

"It's called an 'a,' and it always comes first when a child learns his letters." He slid his free hand up her arm affectionately, and lowered his head to be level with hers, "And it's the first letter used to spell 'Arabelle.'"

Arabelle had never dreamed that she'd ever even catch a glimpse of her name spelled out in letters. It had always seemed too impossible, almost as impossible as finding a village that wouldn't drive her away from fear. She found herself behaving like a small child, almost wriggling from Michael's arms in her excitement as she spoke breathlessly, "Teach me! Spell the rest of it! Write it out all the way!"

And so with his hand resting gently but firmly over hers, her arm moved along with his to press out her name in the dirt. Her name was much longer than it sounded, and it was a pretty thing to look at. She gazed at it hard, unable to fill her vision too fully with it, content to simply see the name she had known her entire life.

"Now write yours…right next to mine - so close that they're touching."

His arm tightened around her shoulders when she said this, and their arms moved entwined again, marking out his name directly beneath hers, overlapping it in a strangely tender way. Arabelle stretched out her hand and traced the names with her finger, letting Michael recite each character to her as she touched it. He did this several times, until she could do it herself.

Then it was her turn with the stick. She made painstaking copy of each letter in the earth beside Michael's script, pausing and smoothing the dirt whenever she was displeased with her result. Her single eye was squinted with concentration, her tongue between her teeth.

"Arabelle…"

She didn't look up, still etching out a somewhat squashed copy of the second 'L' in her name. "Yes, Michael?"

"Arabelle, did you ever learn what a kiss is?"

She giggled, looking over her shoulder, feeling the original repulsion at his appearance dissolve almost at once, "Of course I did! Everyone knows what a kiss is."

"How did you learn?"

"My mother used to kiss me - I only just remember. And I saw a man kiss his wife once when I was picking berries near a farm."

"But have you ever kissed a man?"

She stopped writing, turning fully to him and tilting her head at him, narrowing her eye, "Well…no. I don't know who my father was, and I had no brothers."

Michael shook his clumsy head, "No, I meant…a man - or boy - you liked. You know…like the man and wife kissed?"

Arabelle laughed again, though Michael sensed a bit of sadness in her tone, "I don't think anyone would enjoy being kissed by _these _lips." She raised two fingers and massaged the ragged lack of lips on the left side of her face. Her half-smile died, and she lowered her hand, along with her eyes.

Michael waited for a moment. Then he spoke in a low, halting tone, "Arabelle, would you kiss me if I asked you to?"

Her eye remained hidden from him, but he saw her shoulders tense somewhat. He cursed himself inwardly. Of course she didn't want to kiss him! Why should she?

But when her face rose to meet his it looked like she had swallowed a handful of stars, and her eye shone out like a bright blue comet. She leaned toward him, rising up on her knees to reach his head, and pressed her rough, ill-made mouth to his.

"Another one?"

She complied, kissing his mouth as many times as he asked. Each time she felt her uncertainty diminish, because she could feel the warmth flooding his skin as she lightly touched his shoulders. He had blood, and a heart, just like any human. And what a heart!

Michael sat still, not even asking anymore as Arabelle continued to kiss along his lips. The experience was so new to both of them that innumerable kisses seemed like too few. He closed his eyes, soaking in the feel of her breath before he broke the tenderness with a barely audible whisper.

"I killed a boy, Arabelle…"

The kisses stopped. Arabelle drew away, her eye wide and confused. She gave a nervous laugh, "What…what do you mean?"

"I strangled a boy, Arabelle…I killed him. And I meant to…"

She did not back away, as she had the other night, as he had feared. But she leaned her head back slightly, as if viewing him differently.

"Why would you tell me this?"

He lowered his eyes, timidly reaching for her hands. She did not draw them away, but he noted that she did not respond to his grasp, "Because it would be wrong to keep it from you. I have taken life, I who should never have received it. But I repent of it, Arabelle…it tortures me every day, and the dreams…" He laughed bitterly, "That's how I knew I was some brother to the human. No animal dreams such horrid dreams."

He met Arabelle's gaze, forcing a thin smile, "You've helped to drive away some of those dreams, sweet. But you have the right to know of it."

"Why?"

He tilted his head, puzzled. Arabelle clarified, "Why did you kill him?"

The answer was choked with shame and pain, "He was frightened of me…just like the other child. Just like the de Laceys…just like my own fath - my maker."

He could see that she was still unable to understand. How could he expect her to? Had she not gone through the same rejection time and time again? How many times had she been called ugly, unnatural, and seen the faces of children filled with fear and disgust? But had she ever killed any of them, ever gone mad with the grief of loneliness and let her anger forth into violence?

"Arabelle, I am weak. You have taught me what strength can be found in the human heart, even if mine is a half-heart. I need to learn more from you. But you must learn everything about me first."

The girl squinted at him for a moment, then laid her hand over his. Her fingers were stiff, but not cold. A watery smile creased her crooked mouth, her milky eye widening attentively at him.

"Then learn from me. But first learn that I am not able to save you."

"Arabelle, you are my angel!" Michael protested, but she shook her head resolutely.

"No, Michael. You call that doctor your maker. But he only crafted your body. Your soul is your own, and it was put into you by God. It had to be for a reason. Just as…" She paused.

"Just as he put me here…and made me the way I am." She blinked several times, as if to banish tears. Then she leaned into Michael, resting her head on his chest in a firm embrace, her arms around his torso.

"You've shown me my purpose. You've shown me why God chose to make me this way. Thank you."


End file.
